John closed his eyes, slowly drifting off to sleep. he didn't know why he bothered complimenting Mike in the first place. So he simply played it off as being too hungover to be a jerk. He knew in his subconscious he should get up and eat something. But he didn't eat a lot. He ha da bit of an eating disorder but he wouldn't tell anyone that. So he just drank through his meals. He was all muscle, no a milligram of fat on him. Just how he liked it.

Mike went to a doctors appointment for a check up, then a therapy appointment. Mike had been depressed for most of his teens and so far, all ofhis twenties. Sure, he was happy at times, but inside, he pretty much always felt dead.

John slept through the day. He slept more than he should. Why he slept so much, other than the hangovers, he didn't kn ow. John had always pushed his problems aside in order to put on a show, like always. Hell, at this point, life was a show for John.

John sat up in his bead, staring down at his glass of scotch in his hands. He drank a lot. He knew it. But he couldn't stop. His life was too stressful. He still had a headache, and was hoping to dull it with a drink. Though he did not plan on getting trashed again. He glanced up when the door open, seeing it was Mike before he looked back down at his glass.

Mike walked past John, heading over to his stuff. He stripped down to his boxers and climbed into bed, biting his lip as he thought about what he talked about with his therapist today. Things I never hope to think about again. He closed his eyes and sighed.

John flinched when it started to thunder out. John was terrified on thunderstorms. Terrified. He took a deep breath and took another sip of his drink and sinking down in his bed, resisting the urge to let tears loose as the thunder rang in his ears.

Mike slowly relaxed, closing his eyes as sounds of thunder and flashes of lightning danced in his senses. He live thunderstorms. He found them soothing. They proved that just because nature is fierce and mysterious doesn't mean they're destructive.

Another loud, crack of thunder pierced through the sky. John jumped and spilled his drink on his comforter. "Shit!" He hissed and grabbed a towel laying on the floor, his hand shaking as he dried the blanket, his body tense.

John ran a hand through his hair and went into the bathroom, slamming the door shut and sliding down the wall. he had bad memories associated with thunderstorms. So he let the tears go. God, he hated thunderstorms.

John eventually got a hold of himself, not knowing Mike's intentions. He went back into the other room, his hair hiding his tear stained cheeks. he slipped into bed, closing his eye sand struggling to fall asleep.

John woke up an hour later, his phone ringing off the hook with twitter updates. He grumbled to himself and snatched his phone, checking the updates. His eyes almost popped out of his head. Suddenly awake, he sat up and snatched his laptop, his hand over his mouth when he saw Mike' twitter. "No..." Heh whispered as he saw the pictures and dirt that was posted about him. He clenched his jaw. He could not fucking believe this.

Mike got up early, getting ready for the day. Once he was done, he grabbed his laptop and went to twitter. He uploaded the photos and the dirt before shutting off his laptop and leaving. He smirked as he rode the elevator to the lobby. This was gonna be a good day.

john buried his face in his hands. The pictures, he could understand. But the thing about the thunderstorms was low. John had a pathological fear of them. And the reason why he was afraid of them was even more dark and private than the fear itself. Tears sprang in his eyes as he though of the reason for his fear.

Mike went through the day, feeling good. He walked back to his room, running into Randy on the way there. They chatted for a few minutes before Randy had to get back to his lover. Mike continued walking until he was at the door. He walked into, ignoring John as he always did.

John looked up when Mike entered. Beer cans, alcohol bottles, shot glasses and whatnot scattered on his bed. He tipsy, but he was sober enough to be pissed at Mike. "You asshole." He hissed quietly at Mike.

Mike smirked. "Why yes. Yes I am," he said as he stripped down to his boxers. "I'd rather be an asshole than an alcoholic. How does that not effect your wrestling, by the way? 'Cause I know some guys who would love tips for those mornings after they partied and wake up too hung over for work," he said and climbed into bed.

John glared, trying to not let the alcoholic comment get to him. It was a sore spot. "I can't fucking believe you. You told the world I was crying during a thunderstorm, and you posted pictures of me hungover. Your fucking low." He growled, sipping form a bottle of Bacardi.